pardon and sanctify me
by Pickled Rellish
Summary: Tony only realized later why Cap left the room, clutching his cell until his knuckles were white, when he checked his own messages much later. He hadn't felt the vibration, hadn't discerned it from the sharp buzz of pain that began at his temples and burrowed behind his eyes, into every furrow on his brow and down into his teeth. Or: The Tony and Aunt Peggy relationship we wanted.


**What to Expect:** Fix-It of Sorts, Canonical Character Death, Peggy Carter's funeral, Aunt Peggy Carter, Post-Civil War (Marvel), Canon Compliant, because who didn't want a Peggy is Tony's Aunt post CW fic, Tony Feels, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony Stark-centric, CACW Missing Scene

 **A/N:** This wasn't meant to be a Civil War fix-it exactly, which is why a lot of it is just... brushed over? Lazy writing, perhaps. This was just a fic to give me the Aunt Peggy that the film never did. There's better author's out there who can give us all the Civil War Fix-It we want - god knows I'd just screw it up! :]

Regardless - enjoy!

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 **pardon and sanctify me**

 **by Pickled Rellish (funeralshenanigans on AO3)**

Tony only realized later why Cap left the room, clutching his cell until his knuckles were white, when he checked his own messages much later. He hadn't felt the vibration, hadn't discerned it from the sharp buzz of pain that began at his temples and burrowed behind his eyes, into every furrow on his brow and down into his teeth.

 _She's gone. In her sleep._

Five words, five syllables; it's utterly succinct and it feels like someone's punched him in the throat, even though he'd been expecting this, he'd known it was coming for years – he'd stopped visiting quite so much when she forgot who Tony was and he couldn't bare the way her lips would curve into a smile around his father's name.

The shame was hot, the guilt thick, and when he was asked to be a pallbearer, his refusal was absolute. He'd like to say it's because he couldn't face carrying her besides Steve, that he was being the better man here – after all, he'd had years with her, the very least he could do was let Steve pay his respects without his antichrist walking besides him – but it's nothing so altruistic.

In her final months, it was Steve who visited, who sat through her delirium whenever he could make it out there – not Tony. Tony poured through daily reports the care home sent him, dulcet Irish tones suggesting he should go visit after reading out stats whilst he multitasked, reading up on Charlie Spencer. "Soon," he always replied. "She had a bad day today."

Simply put: he didn't deserve the honor of laying her to rest.

Flying via plane, even his private jet, was subtler than arriving in his armor and as he flew, thumbing through texts and emailing instructions to Vision to keep Wanda house bound whilst he played Keep-a-Way with Ross and she wavered between signing or not. He found himself questioning again if he was doing the right thing here, if Peggy would've approved and he sank lower in his seat when a nasty little voice whispered he could've known the answer if he'd only gone to see her.

He'd never had the chance to say goodbye to his dad or his mom; he played scenario after scenario after developing the glasses, where he'd clutch his mom's hand so tight he'd swear he could feel her pulse against his palm, and tell her that he loved her. Where the argument with his dad turned into teasing banter, the sting taken out of the words they'd thrown at each other that day. He never got to say goodbye to Jarvis and instead he was there in the ambulance with him, so he didn't die alone and surrounded by strangers, both of his hands wrapped around Jarvis' and _thank you's_ and _I'll miss you's_ pressed against his knuckles like a prayer.

The headaches were spectacular and lasted for days – he pretended he was rewriting history when in reality he was surrounded by LMDs and grayscaled props.

The funeral was held at St Luke's Cathedral and from where he'd sequestered himself at the back, he had a bird's eye view of the place, hunkered down low so he couldn't be spotted, sitting on the floor with his forehead pressed against his knees as eulogies were delivered and hymns were sung. _Be Still My Soul_ became _That Old Rugged Cross_ and Tony silently sang, "I will cling to the old rugged cross, and exchange it some day for a crown," with the rest of the progression.

He left when Natasha arrived, slipped out with just as much fanfare as he'd arrived with.

Come the morning, he visits her grave and it's already filled, the mound of dirt rounded and fresh and he nestles his flowers in amongst the others before he's hitching his trousers up, folding his legs beneath him and sitting down in front of her.

He remembers the fantastic stories she'd tell him and not of just Captain America. He remembers being wide eyed and in awe as she weaved her tales, utterly entranced as she condemned the radio shows and told him about the _real_ Howling Commandos. He remembers looking up at Jarvis with a newfound respect and even though he brushed off Tony's astonishment with a glib, "Miss Carter exaggerates," whilst picking off non-existent lint from his jacket, he looked proud. ("Nonsense, you were absolutely integral, there's no need to be quite so modest, Mr. Jarvis.")

Her mouth was always painted red and her smiles were always real; she'd hug Tony tight until he became too old and too surly for them at the age of thirteen. She always asked about school, asked how he was, and seemed genuinely interested in his answers. She'd kiss his cheeks, leaving a smudge against them just so she could thumb it off.

He'd called her Aunt Peggy for as long as he could remember and she'd been one of the few constants in his life.

"I should've visited more," he says to her headstone. The sun is warm on the back of his neck. "I'm sorry." He feels like a broken record player recently. "You deserved more from me."

When his phone goes off in his pocket, the sun's dipped in the sky and he's got goosebumps.

"Where are you?" Ross' voice was sharp. "There's a situation in Bucharest, you're needed."

"I'm an active non-combatant. I signed a piece of paper and everything that says so."

"You're needed. Where are you."

"Not that it's any of your business, but London."

"You weren't signed off to go to London."

"Personal matters, sir. I don't need a permission slip for that."

"There's a lot of that going around." Ross hums and Tony closes his eyes tightly, briefly. "Get your ass to Berlin, Stark."

The line goes dead.

He goes to Berlin.

He calls Rhodey, sends him out to arrest his childhood hero and nurses a glass of scotch on the flight over. Asks out loud when the last time he slept was. Friday answers, oozing with disapproval. "Sixty-five hours and thirty-three minutes ago, boss. You should get some rest."

He hums. "Yeah, I'll get right on that." He doesn't look up from his StarkPad for the rest of the flight.

He meets Steve in the suit he'd been wearing at Peggy's funeral. It was the only suit he'd brought with him and he swears he can smell the church within the fibers; he's burning the thing when he gets home.

He wonders, as the hours pass and he bounces from Berlin to Queens then back to Germany and over to Siberia before dragging his ass back to New York, how many timezones he's flown through and if it's not all some terrible nightmare and he's actually fallen asleep on the plane from London instead. He pinches himself, hard, and it takes a moment for the pain to bloom but it's there, he can feel it.

"Not a nightmare then," he says out loud, pushing himself away from his workstation with a sigh, a half-finished exoskeleton for Rhodey's legs grimly looking up at him. He shoves himself away from the desk. "Fry, you finished loading the set yet?"

"It's ready for projection, boss."

"Time for some theatre in that case. Boot her up."

He's tired and he aches, there's a list as long as his arm of stuff that he needs to get done but right now? Right now he's leaving his workshop, secluding himself away in a room that features an out of place hospital bed and curling up into the chair pushed up at its side.

When everything is said and done, he slips the glasses on and closes his eyes, his words coming out on an exhale as he opens them to her smiling up at him, her eyes crinkled. "Hi Aunt Peggy. Long time no see."

" _Howard_ ," she breathes, her grip surprisingly strong as he grasps at his hands. "You're not dead?"

He doesn't recoil, not like last time. He doesn't make her voice go thready and confused as she shouts after him. Doesn't leave and never come back. Doesn't let that be the last time he sees her alive. Instead he smiles, glad for the tinted glasses covering his eyes. "Not dead."

"Oh thank god. I thought- I thought-" Tony shushes her with a soft sound and her frown smoothes out until her lips are curling up into a smile, her distress forgotten. "How's Maria? Little Tony?"

Tony brushes his thumb across her hand, his return smile fleeting. "Not so little anymore." He brings her hands up to his lips, kisses them. "I've missed you."

"Oh Howard," Peggy says and Tony can feel his throat getting tight as she caresses his cheek. "I'm not the one who went anywhere."

"Yeah," he says, closing his eyes, leaning into her touch. "I know."

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 **A/N:** Okay so. There's that.

Star pointed out to me I'd head canon'd my take on Jarvis' death from my other fic and she's absolutely right, whoops. Maybe I'll nestle this under that series when I've wrote part two for it? (Which is actually in progress! I'm just a terribly lazy writer, wow.)

The title comes from The Old Rugged Cross which is just such a lovely hymn.

BUT YES ANYWAY - hope you liked my mini attempt. Kudos and comments always welcomed :3 Come say hi on tumblr! (funeralshenanigans)


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